


Private Reserve

by thewightknight



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 15:33:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4711124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewightknight/pseuds/thewightknight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What had started out as a fling to ease her broken heart after Fenris’ rejection had turned into a monumental mess.  She’d expected pouting and sulking after she’d turned down Saemus’ marriage proposal.  She’d never dreamed he would bring the matter before his father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Private Reserve

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this is sad. You know what happens in Chapter 2, after all.

Hawke was coming to remember the days of scrabbling for coin and dodging Templars with fond nostalgia. Life had been harder, but simpler as well. For one thing, nobles didn’t wander around Hightown with large walking sticks. Without her staff she felt naked. And for another, Lowtown streetrats didn’t receive summons from the Viscount. She was afraid she knew what this summons was, too.

Seneschal Bran’s sneer was even more pronounced than usual when she presented herself. She could hear the shouting through the closed doors of the Viscount’s office. Bran had to pound on the door to be heard.

When she was admitted, Saemus rushed to her side. He tried to take her hand, face aglow, and visibly wilted when she stepped back, shaking him off. One look at his father’s face confirmed her suspicion.

“Saemus, you didn’t,” she groaned.

“Thank goodness you’re here, love. You can help me convince my father,” he pled, reaching out to her again.

Maker’s breath. Hawke sidestepped him again, rubbing her forehead. “Oh, Saemus.” She turned to the Viscount. “My apologies, Your Grace. I’ve already told him no.”

“Marian!” Saemus protested, his voice breaking.

“Well thank goodness one of you has some sense,” Dumar growled.

What had started out as a fling to ease her broken heart after Fenris’ rejection had turned into a monumental mess. She’d expected pouting and sulking after she’d turned down Saemus’ marriage proposal. She’d never dreamed he would bring the matter before his father.

“But I love you!” Saemus proclaimed. Both Hawke and Dumar groaned in unison.

“Saemus, I already told you. The nobility would never stand for it. The daughter of a Ferelden apostate and an Amell whose noble blood carries mage taint, marrying the Viscount’s son? There is no way I can marry you. And don’t say anything foolish about renouncing your family. I won’t hear about it,” she added hastily as Saemus drew himself up, preempting just such a declaration from the crestfallen look he sported after she finished speaking. His father had anticipated the same statement, from the look on his face.

“Marian,” he pled again and she felt like a bully kicking a puppy, the way his face fell, which was not something you should think about your lover. She was only three years older than him, but it felt like decades now.

“I will convince you,” he said, softly. Raising his voice, he turned to his father. “I will convince you both.” With that, he bowed and strode from the room, slamming the doors shut behind him. Leaving Hawke behind that closed door with his father. Perfect. Just perfect.

She started to apologize again, and Dumar waved her silent. She stood watching, trying not to fidget, as he filled a glass from the crystal decanter on his desk and took a long drink, staring at her over the rim as he swallowed. She was surprised when he poured another glass and offered it to her, gesturing for her to sit. It was the smoothest brandy she’d ever tasted, almost better than sex as it slid down her throat.

He allowed her to take several sips in silence before he spoke again. “So am I right in assuming that you have … dallied … with my son?”

She felt the flush rise in her cheeks, looking down at the glass, unable to meet his gaze.

Dumar sighed. “Well, on one hand I am relieved that he is for once acting as one would expect of a man his age. But of course, being who he is, he would take this, like so much else, to extremes.” She couldn’t help the snort that escaped her, looked up in alarm to catch a flash of amusement in the Viscount’s eyes as well. “I would hope that you are not planning on continuing your association, after this …” Dumar trailed off, making a vague gesture in the direction of the door.

“No, Your Grace. I told him this morning that it would be best if we didn’t, well …” Hawke shrugged. “I’m sure something will come up shortly to take me out of the city for awhile. That should help.”

“Do not underestimate my son’s stubbornness. I’m sure neither of us have heard the last of it.” He hesitated, then asked, “Do you love him?”

Hawke shifted in her chair, uncomfortable. “I’m fond of him, Your Grace, but…”

“Ah. That’s good to know. I can count myself only half ogre then.” Dumar snorted at his own feeble attempt at a joke, and Hawke raised her glass to him, draining the last of the amber liquid.

“If that is all, Your Grace?” she asked.

Dumar waved a dismissal, and she turned to go. As her hand fell on the latch, he added, “I would wish that you were a suitable match for my son. You would help him do the office proud when I am gone.” 

Startled, she turned, but the Viscount had his back to her, so after a moment she let herself out, closing the door gently behind her.

Bran was standing in the corner of the landing, but she’d bet a month’s profit from the mine that he’d been listening at the door for most of the conversation. She gave him her best smile and his lips pulled back from his teeth in a grimace.

“I don’t suppose you’d tell me what’s in that decanter the Viscount keeps on his desk?” she asked, just to watch him squirm as he pretended politeness.

“That is the Viscount’s private reserve, Serah Hawke,” he ground out.

“Ah. Good to know. Thank you so much.” She gave him an elaborate bow, surreptitiously flipping him the bird in the process, and sauntered down the stairs. Normally she’d go visit Varric in the Hanged Man after something like this, but there was no way she’d put the swill they served there on top of the Viscount’s brandy.

*********************

She’d only been joking about leaving the city, but Anders came to the estate with a dark-haired woman in tow the next morning. Her name was Delilah Howe, and her brother, a Grey Warden, had disappeared searching for that damned thaig of Bertrand’s. Saemus had already sent her three letters, each of which she had returned unopened, and she slipped out the servants’ entrance that afternoon as he was pounding on the front door, meeting up with Anders and Varric and Fenris at the Hanged Man. They left the next morning.

When they returned weeks later, there was a stack of letters waiting for her. She gave herself a day to recover, then collected them all and made her way to the Viscount’s Keep. She managed to draw Saemus into a secluded corner of the gardens before returning them, gaining a modicum of privacy, and countered each of his protestations with simple nos. It went on for hours and left them both wrung out, but after she walked away the letters stopped.

She threw herself into whatever came her way afterwards, giving him space. They’d be able to patch things up later, after all. They had time.

***************

It turned out that the Viscount’s private reserve, at least, had survived the Qunari. With Varric’s and Isabela’s help, it ended up in Hawke’s wine cellar. She’d fill a flask when she went out some evenings. It was random, whether she’d end up at Leandra’s or Seamus’ memorial, but whichever one she found herself in front of, she’d sit and sip and talk to their stones until dawn.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to come say hi over on [tumblr](http://thewightknight.tumblr.com/).


End file.
